


Killing Monsters

by AJWmagickl



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, PTSD, Sleep Paralysis, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 13:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJWmagickl/pseuds/AJWmagickl
Summary: Will Dixon thundered through the front door, almost splintering it from the meager wooden frame as he wrenched it open. Face flushed red with drunkenness, dark eyes flaming in uncontained rage, his shaking hands clawed at the buckle of his belt before he was even three steps into the living room.





	1. The Past Remains

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down to work on one of my 3 WIPs and found this on my computer. It's been here forever, so I decided, 3 WIPs are not enough! Here's #4. This starts out being mostly Daryl, but Jesus will show up I promise.  
> Also, mind the tags for references to child abuse.

“Ya worthless piece of bastard shit!”

Will Dixon thundered through the front door, almost splintering it from the meager wooden frame as he wrenched it open. Face flushed red with drunkenness, dark eyes flaming in uncontained rage, his shaking hands clawed at the buckle of his belt before he was even three steps into the living room. 

He growled through thin lips as the veins on his hands raised like hackles. Fresh blood trickled down his forearm from a small half-moon cut, which he’d suffered after staggering out of the driver’s seat of his truck, mumbling in his stupor, and tripping over Daryl’s beat-up bike on the porch. 

Drawing the thick, worn belt from his jeans, the raging man looped it in half, cracking the leather in one swift, sharp slap against his palm.  


Harsh features morphed into stone and he slipped into a thick silence. He listened for any sign of movement in the low light, and drunk or not, his hearing was always exceptional; so much so that to his sons it sometimes seemed almost supernatural. 

“Boy. Ya best not be runnin’.” 

The words curled like a low fog through the small house, and the menace they carried might have turned Daryl’s blood to ice; but Will Dixon’s youngest son had already hightailed it into the woods.

***  
His heart a lump of stone in his throat, he made for the trees as fast as any rabbit he’d ever hunted. Small bare feet fled lightly across the dry leaves and roots, more a ghost than a flesh and blood boy that was burdened with such human qualities as weight and mass.

Having abandoned his half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen table the moment he’d heard the slam of his father’s truck door, Daryl had hurried quietly to his room. It was safer there, although that wasn’t a given, but sometimes his dad would altogether ignore his presence, content to drink himself into oblivion.  


Just as often, the old man called him out, and Daryl could only guess at what would happen next. If the elder Dixon had gotten laid, or made a deal for some nice painkillers, they might end up eating potato chips and watching John Wayne movies until the old man lay snoring in his beat-up old recliner. Other times, for any or no reason at all, Daryl could end up on the receiving end of relentless fists and vicious words, both too painful to consciously recall.

But tonight, at the sound of the stumbling crash and subsequent yelp of pain on the porch, the boy knew it was run or die. When you’re young, and small, and a Dixon, the two things you learn first about surviving are to never let your guard down, and don’t piss off the old man. So he ran like the fucking wind into the muggy Georgia night.

A hoarse, murderous yell carried from the open window he’d escaped in his bedroom, the words slurred but still distinct over the sound of the blood pounding in the boy’s ears as he fled. 

“Ya better get your ass back here, boy, or it’ll be worse for ya! I’ll fuckin’ beat your scrawny faggot face into the fuckin’ ground when I find ya!”

If Daryl was lucky, he’d hide in the woods until his father passed out, and by the time he awoke, late into the next day, the old man’s temper might’ve cooled.  


If he was really lucky, the stupid son of a bitch would drink himself into oblivion and not remember what happened at all. Sometimes luck ran on Daryl’s side, but never as often as he wished and not for long stretches at a time. 

The boy knew all too well what the receiving end of bad luck felt like.

Young eyes seeing clearly in the dark, he ran for a good mile, skirting through the thick woods by memory to a nondescript standing hollow tree he’d found on a hunt. The cool earth soothed him as he crawled, sweaty and exhausted, through a space in the broken bark near the roots. Curling up in the small wooden cave, he held his thin arms tightly around his sides, giving the intense pace of his heart and breath a few moments to ratchet down. 

He found it much easier to still his body than his mind. Wincing as flashes of fury played behind his closed eyes like electric pulses, the hard lines of Will Dixon’s face appeared again and again, bearing the look that rose in his eyes as his rage consumed and spilled over into his fists. 

Daryl’s brother Merle was often the one that took the brunt of the old man’s wrath, but Merle was older and spent as much time away from home as possible, even if that meant picking a fight in juvenile detention so he could add some time onto his sentence. 

Their mother was gone, burnt out of existence by fire and alcohol. Merle was already making his escape, through drugs or jail. Daryl was alone except for the monster that lived in his house. 

No, not his house. His home was in the woods, in the belly of the tree. The steady chirp of crickets and light rustle of a warm wind finally pulled his attention away from the visions of violence, while the steady hum of the forest whispered secrets in his ear as he drifted to sleep.

He was nine years old.


	2. The Past Returns

It doesn’t take long to pack his few belongings. He shoves worn clothes into an army green duffle bag, followed by some tools Aaron loaned him to keep his bike tuned, a sparse amount of ammo, a first aid kit, a couple of books. He slings the duffle over his shoulder along with an AR-15, scoops up his crossbow, and leaves the room he’s occupied in Rick’s house since he came to Alexandria.

Moving down the stairs, he knows this is for the best. He has no personal incentive to leave, but they’d talked about it, him and Rick and the others, and agreed it’s to their advantage to spread the community members out a bit, especially the experienced fighters. They won’t not be too far from each other, but far enough that if an attack is launched, not everyone will be in the first line of fire. 

They’d learned a few things from the war with Negan. The leader of the Saviors was now confined in Alexandria’s sole jail cell, his men disbanded, and a kind of peace held fast with Dwight and the remaining members at the Sanctuary. But as far as any of them knew, war was _always_ looming. It would come sometime. From somewhere. 

“Never put all your commanding officers in the same shuttlecraft.”, Eugene had told them during the discussion. There was some debate, but eventually everyone had to agree that the first rule of Star Trek safety definitely applied in the face of impending war.

So, it’s decided. They’ll spread out. Rick and Michonne stay with Carl and Judith, while Daryl chooses a smaller house three blocks away, toward the back of the subdivision. Walking toward his new home, he passes the now unkempt yards of the neighborhood. Those that aren’t being used to grow food are tall with weeds, shrubs growing wildly out of their original picture-perfect order. 

The pond in the center of town is a ruined mess from the night they’d set it on fire. They’d drained it as well as they could, removing every burned remnant of the dead that had walked blindly into the flames, and rain had eventually refilled it. The surface of the water is quiet today, but they can never trust its appearance; God only knows what kind of decay and disease lies in wait in the thick layers of sludge beneath the glassy surface.

Stopping at the corner house a block down from the pond, Daryl appraises his new home warily from the street, his gear still hanging from his shoulders. The structure is only small by Alexandria standards, meaning that it’s huge. He’s never actually been inside. He chose it for its strategic value, and its comparatively unpretentious facade. 

As fading afternoon light casts the first shadows across the lawn, he admires the porch that runs the length of the house, noting with a scoff and a shake of his head that the porch itself is bigger than the last trailer he had shared with Merle, right before the world ended. 

He adjusts his gear and crosses the porch to the front door, stepping inside to find the house comfortably lacking in sleek leather furniture, fancy rugs, and flowery pictures on the wall. He drops the duffle and weapons in the entry hall and makes a quick walk of the first floor. The nearly-bare walls are high, giving the house a feeling of openness that he rather likes. Plain white paint offers a feeling of simplicity.

The kitchen is open to most of the first floor, its smooth wooden cabinets stained a simple warm maple color, the countertops are black and as far from showy as granite countertops can get. Stainless appliances are top quality and still look almost unused, and it occurs to Daryl that maybe the people who owned this house never quite finished moving in before everything happened. It’s suspiciously unadorned, as if its occupants never had the chance to fill it up with knick-knacks and art. 

Crossing back through the living room, he makes his way up the stairs to find the upstairs as sparsely furnished as the first floor. Of the two smaller bedrooms, one is completely empty, and the other simply contains a panel bed, a chest of drawers, and a nightstand with a small lamp. A decent sized bathroom is across the hall.

The master bedroom is enormous, the king-sized bed doesn’t even begin to fill one end, and the windows run the full length of the main wall. The shower in the bathroom can probably fit ten people easily. Daryl smirks, shuts the door, and chooses the smaller furnished bedroom for himself, justifying his decision by the fact that it faces the front of the house and gives him a clear view of the block and the area just beyond the pond.

He stores his gear in his room and heads straight back out to the porch. He probably couldn’t have picked a more perfect house for himself in all of Alexandria, but the style and furnishings have nothing to do with why he was there. From his vantage point, he’ll be aware of anyone coming through the gates toward the main cluster of homes in time to take up a defensive position if necessary. 

He isn’t alone at this end of the subdivision, either. More of the Alexandrians are scattered in houses along the block, although some are newer to the community. Some of the empty houses scattered between remain unlocked to allow anyone access who might need a place to hide or fight. The rest of the homes are nothing but ashes and burnt brick, charred remains of a battle that almost set the entire community ablaze. Those houses still need to be cleared, but Rick has insisted on a respite. They all deserve some peace while they can have it, he’d said, so they mainly stick to keeping the gardens and making runs.

Although safety in numbers is the rule of the world now, with the new living situations all of Alexandria has eyes on it most of the time. As much as Daryl hates the idea of living alone, he’s more than willing to do it if it keeps his family safe. And he is able to do it, he’s spent plenty of time in his life alone. 

He just has to remind himself, as he lights a cigarette on the quiet porch that now seems too far away from his closest friends, that this situation is different. This time, he’s alone to protect them, to watch out for them, and not because he’s been left on his own with no one knowing or caring whether he lives or dies.

His eyes roam the empty street, studying every house, recalling who lives where and the level of their fighting skills, committing to memory anything that could be of use in the face of an attack. Dusk falls quickly, a chilly wind moving the few dried leaves on the porch in small eddies around the hunter’s feet. He crunches his spent cigarette beneath his boot and takes one last sweep of the area before heading inside.

It hasn’t escaped his notice that the house, although unlived in for who knows how long, is clean. Obviously someone decided to clean it before he moved in, and his bet is on Carol. If that’s true, and he knows it is, he’s also betting that the refrigerator isn’t empty. 

Searching the kitchen, he finds cereal, coffee and sugar in the cupboard, and in the refrigerator a couple of bottles of old beer and a large casserole with a note that reads “Eat!” He smirks at that, knowing that Carol doesn’t trust him to take decent care of himself without some urging. She’d headed back to the Kingdom this afternoon after a short visit.

His stomach growls in anticipation as he sets the dish on the counter and opens the freezer, the corners of his lips curling up slightly at the sight of two squirrels, a rabbit, and what appeared to be various parts of the deer he’d hunted a few days ago, all cleaned and cut and ready to be thawed.

A few minutes later, the casserole is warming in the oven with the timer set for twenty minutes, and Daryl meanders around the kitchen. Pulling a beer out of the fridge, he pops the top and takes a long draw. The fact that it had gone flat some time ago isn’t surprising, but it’s still a beer, and he takes a moment to appreciate the fact that it’s at least cold. 

Leaning against the center island, his narrow eyes set upon a closed door next to the laundry room. It’s a bedroom, he’d bet. Most of these homes had smaller rooms downstairs for guests. Out of boredom more than curiosity, he crosses the kitchen and opens the door. In the twilight barely lightening the room, shapes emerge out of the shadows. Daryl stands shock-still in the doorway, his breath quickening as he assesses the room.

It’s small, and unsurprisingly plain. A single curtainless window is on the far wall, and beneath it a twin bed rests on a plain frame, its bedding piled haphazardly in the center of the mattress. A square, wobbly table stands in place of a nightstand. The only other piece of furniture in the room is a short dresser, its veneer worn in places and several knobs missing from the drawers. To the right is another door, leading to the closet. 

This was a child’s room, but more than that. The layout, the unadorned window, the placement of the worn furniture; it was newer, and a bit bigger, but otherwise exactly like the bedroom Daryl had once called his own in the house he’d shared with his father and Merle after his mom died…right down to the crumpled blue bedspread and the stale smell of cigarettes wafting up from the carpet.

Memories spin in tornadic circles in the hunter’s mind, too many to handle. Feeling suddenly dizzy, he steps out from the threshold, slams the door, leans his back against it to fight off the tide of nausea that surges within him.

He couldn’t have seen what he thought he saw. He must have imagined it. Not one to be easily, or ever, disoriented, he decides maybe he’s just tired and hungry. He’ll leave it for now, and look again in the light. 

Fuck, this peace and quiet is going to kill him. It’s being busy that keeps him sane, not fucking _resting_ like Rick wants them to do. Tomorrow he’s going to put together a team and start clearing those burned out lots.

Shaking off the nausea, he pulls away from the door just as the oven timer starts to beep. Knowing it couldn’t have been more than two minutes since he’d first looked into the bedroom, he realizes he must have set the timer wrong. But he flips on the oven light to see cheese bubbling on the casserole, its edges browning.

_Shit_. How long had he been standing in that bedroom? He pulls dinner from the oven and pours the remainder of the beer down the sink. Maybe the beer is bad. Can old beer make you hallucinate and lose time? It seems unlikely, but rather than take chances he pulls the other beer from the fridge and dumps it as well.

The casserole smells good, at least, now that the nausea is receding and he’s hungry. Spooning a generous portion onto a plate, he makes his way to the living room. He’ll eat on the couch, so the bedroom door will be out of his line of sight. He finishes his meal quickly, cleans up the kitchen and decides to turn in early. He refuses to admit to himself that the downstairs of his new house suddenly seems too small, and that bedroom door too big, like it’s Wonderland and he’s just swallowed a shrinking potion. This isn’t a rabbit hole he’s willing to jump into, though, so he turns out the lights and heads upstairs.

Fortunately, a full stomach helps him fall asleep quickly, but he dreams of bare feet fleeing across the forest floor, chased by an unseen monster whose rage echoes off the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be a little slow, guys, and I apologize. It turns out I kind of suck at keeping a writing schedule. Thank you, thank you for reading, I have some cool plans for this fic (well, I hope they're cool). If you like it, I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Also, I'm @AJWMagickl on Tumblr.


	3. Tearing It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We might finally get a glimpse of a certain someone who might mean something to Daryl even if Daryl doesn’t know exactly what that is yet...

Daryl wakes early, makes his coffee to go and grabs a protein bar for breakfast. He’s still feeling off-kilter about the night before, and purposely avoids looking at the door to the downstairs bedroom as he dashes out of the house to find Rick. 

It’s barely light out, the first glow of sun is chasing shadows to their corners, and he realizes Rick probably isn’t out and about quite yet. Hell, he’s probably not even up. Daryl walks the fence instead, nodding at the guards and checking the panels, then finally crossing paths with Carl as the young man heads for an early shift in the garden.

“Your dad up yet?”

“Yeah, barely I think.” Carl laughs lightly, because they both know what keeps Rick in bed later these days, and neither of them can wish anything but happiness for him and Michonne. Hell, Daryl wouldn’t deny anyone a bit of happiness in this god-forsaken world, and he realizes that’s a change from who he was before the Turn.

He’s still surprised from time to time, when little telling moments remind him that he’s not who he was, even though he sometimes still feels like a Dixon. But then, a Dixon wouldn’t have shared so many meals and late-night beers on the porch with Aaron and Eric. A Dixon wouldn’t have followed a cop through the hellscape of the apocalypse. And he alone knows all the secrets he kept growing up, all the ways he only pretended to be like his family. Hell, he followed Merle around for all his adult life, just trying to be something he wasn’t.

So maybe he’s never really been as Dixon as he’s led himself to believe. That’s a thought he has once in a while, that maybe he was always different, and when that idea pops up it brings flashes of memories. Dropping junior high art class after the teacher told him he was gifted at drawing. Failing math just so his dad wouldn’t accuse him of cheating, because ‘Dixons don’t get good grades’. Running away from that first boy he kissed, and not letting himself close to another as long as he was living at home, because that’s a good way to get killed by the old man or Merle, either one.

“You okay?” Carl interrupts his thoughts and he looks up to see the young man already digging at a potted rosemary that needs to be moved into the herb bed.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just look a little tired is all.”

“Nah, I’m good man. Was gonna go talk to your dad about clearing those burnt houses. They’re depressing as hell.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to lower the property values around here. But give him about thirty minutes.” Carl smirks again and returns to his work, while Daryl nods and heads off toward Aaron and Eric’s house. If he’s going to wait Rick and Michonne out, he might as well get a refill on his coffee.

The cup of coffee with Aaron and Eric turns into breakfast with lively conversation, mostly because Eric won’t leave Daryl alone about his new house. 

“It’s so sparse! You need some art on those walls. And paint…there’s a Sherwin Williams store about thirty minutes away, I’m thinking a nice greige with some accent walls in sage green, if the paint is still good.” Eric is speaking excitedly, waiving a piece of homemade bread around as he talks with his hands.

Daryl’s insistence that the house is fine like it is unwittingly leads to a more sober conversation about how he doesn’t need to be living alone. Aaron sits by quietly because he knows that Eric won’t be tabled when it comes to things he’s passionate about. Daryl has no idea why his well-being is one of those things. 

“I’m just saying, it’s hard enough here, you know? No one needs to be alone. What if you need something? What if you have a nightmare? What if…”

“I’m used to bein’ alone, man. Never needed nobody except to watch my back from walkers. Still don’t.”  
Daryl knows it’s a lie when he says it, and the look on Eric’s face says he knows it too. Even Aaron won’t meet his eyes.

Eric leans slightly forward across the breakfast table, his eyes sincere. “I don’t think that’s true for you anymore. It hasn’t been for a while. You have a family. You have friends. And yeah, maybe we need you in that house for our safety, but that doesn’t mean you have to go it alone when everybody else has someone.”

“Eric.” Aaron places his hand on his boyfriend’s arm and when Eric realizes what he’d just said, gets a sheepish look in return. He addresses Daryl. “What Eric means is…”

“I know what he means.” Daryl takes one last sip of his coffee, stands and heads for the door. “Hell, if I have a nightmare I’ll come wake you two up in the middle of the night, if you’re so damn concerned about it.”

“We are!”, calls Eric after him as he walks onto the porch. “You do that, Daryl, I mean it!”

Daryl smirks although the men can’t see it. He knows they’re right, really, knows they mean well, knows almost everyone else here is paired off even if they’re not in a relationship. Tara and Rosita, whatever they’ve become, share a house around the corner from Eric and Aaron. Rick and Michonne have a full house with Carl and Judith. Tobin met a nice lady from Hilltop and convinced her to move to Alexandria with him. Everyone else has a roommate or a lover or a friend.

But Daryl’s never had anyone, not like that. A few women when he was wasted, a couple of men when he wasn’t and Merle was in jail, but nothing like what Rick and Michonne or Eric and Aaron have. Maybe there was a time when he was younger and hoping for something he’d never be able to have, but he’s learned to live without it, and he’s better off to keep any sense of longing at bay. If wishes were horses…

It’s too late in the morning for the lights to be on at Rick’s house, but Daryl chances a knock and hopes he’s not interrupting anything. He’s relieved when Rick answers, fully dressed.

Rick shrugs his head toward the kitchen. “Come in for breakfast.”

“Already done that. Ate at Aaron’s house ‘cuz Carl seemed to think you needed some time.”

“Carl’s being overdramatic. It’s not that bad.”

Daryl shakes his head as he follows Rick into the house. “It’s that bad, man. I could barely sleep what with the new house bein’ all quiet last night. No moaning…”

Rick throws his hands up. “Fine, fine, I know. It’s just, well, when you find a good thing, you know?”

Daryl doesn’t. But he could imagine, if he let himself. A small stitch of sadness pings in his stomach, and he remembers why he doesn’t think about these things.

He sits at the table while Michonne and Rick eat meager portions of scrambled eggs. They’re still recovering in every way from the war, and food isn’t exactly scarce, but it’s wise to be frugal. The conversation turns toward the coming winter. 

“We need greenhouses, several big ones. Need them more than we need to clear those wrecked houses.”, says Rick when Daryl broaches the subject.

“Fine, greenhouses it is. I don’t care, man, just gimme somethin’ to do that’s real work. None of this gardening bullshit.”

Rick smirks. “It’s bullshit, is it? Feeding everyone?” He puts his hands up in a placating gesture before Daryl can respond. 

Michonne interrupts. “We know you hunt almost every day. We rely on it. And we know the game is scarce. But we also need vegetables, we can’t live on just meat and eggs.”

“I get it, I do. I’m just not a gardener. I need somethin’ to build or somethin’ to kill.”

“Alright, let me scope out some spots where we might get materials for greenhouses, and we’ll make a run.”, Rick replies.

Daryl stands and nods. “That’ll do.”

He manages to stay busy for the rest of the day, scoping out and measuring the best sites to put the greenhouses, then finally sifting through a couple of the burnt-out houses to see if there’s any glass or wood that can be salvaged and finding none. 

It's almost dark when he flips on the light over his stove. They’re all cautious with the electricity, only using what they need when they need it. Night in Alexandria is not filled with the cozy lights of neighborhoods in bygone years. It’s dark everywhere, no porch lights, no street lights, nothing that will put a strain on the remaining solar panels that weren’t destroyed in the bombing. It was only recently that they got the system repaired, so he’s glad for the smallest conveniences. 

Dinner is the rest of Carol’s casserole. He sharpens his knife in the glowing light as it heats, glancing at the bedroom door from time to time, more often then he wants to admit. It’s only when the oven timer goes off that he realizes, at some point he’d set the knife on the counter and he’s staring at the room again. Only this time the door is closed, and he has no desire to even step in its direction.

He’ll have to look tomorrow after his shift on watch, because he’s not gonna run away from a stupid room or a stupid door, or from what his stupid brain imagined last night in the dark. But he’ll wait for morning, let the sunlight show him what’s really there. 

Hopefully it will be enough to quell the fear that now lays low in his gut like a brooding shadow, mass without form, nameless, but familiar. 

Drawing long drags on a cigarette doesn’t help. He sits on the porch and stares down the block at three brick chimneys that rise above the scorched remains of burnt-out homes, chunks of their collapsed hulls scattered in pieces among blackened beams and ashes. 

Above them, where the roofs once blocked the sky, bright stars shine. There’s a lightness to the air, a sudden respite from the muggy summer days, and the slight cool of the breeze tells him that change is in the air. He’s seen the signs for days; the barely noticeable lightening of the blue in the daylight sky, the heavy smell of earth as the air changed its pattern, the patchy spots of brown appearing on the pecan leaves.

There’s a sound of light shuffling before he sees the figure approaching his porch, emerging from the sheath of darkness that is Alexandria on a moonless night.

“Hey, Daryl. Have you got room to put up a wayward soul?”

That goddamn voice. Daryl would know it anywhere, and he’s a little surprised when his stomach jumps at the sound. But he smirks, opening his lighter to let the flame guide Jesus to the porch and up the steps. 

Hilltop’s scout smiles, his eyes reflecting the flame in a prism of colors. In the dim light of the flame, his eyes are pools of deep water, somehow bright and dark at the same time. “I’m here for a few days. Rick told me you had some extra space.”

“C’mon in”, Daryl says, opening the door. “I got more room than I know what to do with. Wouldn’t mind some company.”

A mild look of surprise crosses Jesus’ face at the admission.

“Hey.” Daryl grabs a bag off the scout’s shoulder and heads up the stairs. “Don’t tell Eric I said that.” 

“Cross my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I haven't updated in a loooooong time and I'm sorry for that. I have another chapter almost ready to go and another one after that already started, so I won't take as long next time, I promise! Thank you so much for reading, I welcome comments and kudos and flowers and tequila. All of those.


	4. Paralysis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I know I promised I'd get another chapter out quickly and I didn't, I didn't AT ALL. I'm so sorry. Life intervened in a big way and I lost my mojo for awhile. Thank you guys for being patient. :)

True to Daryl’s intuition, Autumn arrives overnight, chasing the sweltering heat of a summer that had long outstayed its welcome.  The light chill in the air seems to energize every living thing, so much so that no one even complains about the strong current that twists between the houses, its fingers spinning dirt into spirals that swirled across gardens and lawns.  The leaves haven’t turned yet, but they will soon.

High on the wooden watchpost at Alexandria’s front gate, Daryl pulls his collar up against his neck and squints blue eyes against the cold, dry gusts that assault his face.  He was prepared for the change of weather, of course, and had pulled on a long-sleeved denim shirt before donning his familiar leather vest that morning. 

He kneels at his post, bracing himself behind the wall as much as he could without hindering his view from the tower, trying to find some relief from the wind. He’s been wide awake all night, perched on the roof just outside his bedroom window, finding more solace in the howling draught that heralded the cold front than he found in his own bed.  The wind had been welcome then, it’s cold sting and rough edge bringing his mind back to the real world after a particularly unsettling nightmare.

It wasn’t unusual that nightmares intensified during the lulls…those rare times when the community pantry was stocked, the walkers sparse, the last enemy dispatched and the next yet to arrive.  Daryl knew he wasn’t alone in this, his group was all too familiar with each other’s cries of terror in the dark.

He doesn’t remember his dream, only that he woke up in a sleep paralysis that left him more frightened than even the worst nightmare could.  He’s heard of people waking and not being able to move or even cry out, but he’s never experienced it. 

_He’d awoken sharply in his bed, heart pounding out of his chest, sweat pooling around him on the mattress so heavy and sticky that he wondered for a moment if he were bleeding instead of sweating. The vestige of the dream was already seeping from his memory, leaving only blurry images and vague impressions in his mind._

_It felt like hours passed before he could move, and as soon as he was able, he leapt out of the bed, backing away and turning to stare at it like it were a possessed thing, something with arms that could reach out and grab him and hold him in its grip._

_Not one inch of his hair, body or clothing was dry, and the sweat kept pouring out of him in the stuffy, still air of the room._

_He’d pulled his t-shirt and sweatpants off in quick succession, tossing them onto the bed before retrieving a towel from the bathroom.  Then he’d dried himself as quickly as he could and slipped into a pair of jeans that lay over a nearby chair._

_Grabbing his boots, vest and cigarettes, a quick glance at the glow-in-the-dark dial on the wind-up clock next to his bed revealed that only thirty minutes had passed since he’d drifted off to sleep.  He’d huffed in frustration at what appeared to be an unusually quick descent into the hellish nightmare, and his paralysis must’ve been much shorter in duration than seemed possible, perhaps lasting seconds instead of minutes._

_Hurriedly, he opened one of the large windows that lined one wall of his room, bare feet landing on the rough shingles as he stepped onto the roof.  He gasped in the cool air, briefly remembering to stay quiet because Paul was sleeping in the next room. The breeze from late evening had intensified, bringing a welcome blanket of cold to his face and body. Leaning down, he used his arms to lower himself to a seated position.  It was only then that he realized he was shaking, and not just a little.  He pressed his back and head against the siding, resting his forearms on his bent knees in front of him, holding tightly to the vest in his hands, and took deep breaths to calm his body._

_It wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped.  With every breath, a flash of the dream appeared in his mind, too intense to analyze and too fleeting to piece together into a semblance of what the dream might’ve been.  The sound of a belt cracking. His father’s walking form, lurching toward him, dead eyes staring straight at him as decomposed lips twisted into a familiar sneer. A door, its rotted wood splintered and dry, the handle brittle and cold beneath his hand. A windowless room._

_When finally his breathing evened out and the shaking subsided, he felt exhausted._

_Lingering memories of the sleep paralysis kept his muscles tense; he’d never felt so powerless or out of control, not even in war.  He decided not to think about what could happen if he experienced that again, especially if he were woken by walkers or an enemy.  Maybe it was a one-time thing.  It had to be._

_The only remnant from the dream that he’d managed to grasp returned to him now…a feeling of lostness that sunk so deeply into his chest that when he even thought about it he had to remind himself to breathe again._

_It felt as real as the world in front of him; the tree limbs dancing with the change of season, the rooftops of Alexandria that lay in shadow, the sinking feeling in his gut that all was lost, all lost, and suddenly those words became a voice in his mind, his voice, crying in misery at the bleak, helpless feeling of loneliness that seeped into his core._

_His eyes stung, or maybe that was just the wind. And he reminded himself again that Paul was a few feet away. Sleeping, but there._

_He wasn’t going back to sleep tonight, he was probably never sleeping in that bed, or maybe any bed, again, and he sure as hell wasn’t going back into his room until the sun rose.  He pulled the vest over his shoulders, put on his boots, and spent the night shivering against his memory and the elements._

His watch began thankfully early, at sunrise.  Daryl liked this watch, it always started out quietly and slowly the community came to life. He mostly kept his eyes forward, scanning the area around Alexandria’s gates and as far beyond as he could see, but sometimes he would glance back to observe as people emerged from their houses and began their day. 

He became familiar with the rumble of Olivia’s garage door as she opened the pantry, of the shadowy silhouettes of Eugene and Rosita emerging from their patrol on the northern border of the Alexandria Safe Zone and approaching the gate.  Even with his back to the houses, he knew that the first shift started early in the garden, and occasionally he could hear their soft voices or laughter as they worked. 

About an hour after sunrise, work began on the wall expansion to the west.  The quiet was lost then, replaced by hammering and the shriek of saws cutting through metal, the grunting of workers bracing panels against long wooden beams, and more than a few loud swear words as the work carried on. 

Yes, he liked this.  Although he was a quiet man and all too aware of his lack of social graces, standing watch while Alexandria awoke around him made him feel more like a part of it all.  And of course, he _was_ a part of it, a leader even, but too often the voices from his past still told him otherwise.  Mornings like this reminded him, as people began to scurry from place to place to escape the temperature that was still rapidly dropping with the influx of wind, that he really had a family.

A slight shudder of the ladder caught his attention, and he leaned over to see Rick climbing to meet him.  It was about this time every morning, right before shift change, that the other man came to sit for a moment, giving the two men a chance to discuss any matters that mattered, or in the absence of those, to just enjoy each other’s company for a few moments and shoot the shit. 

He brought coffee when they had it, and today he didn’t disappoint.  He handed the thermos to Daryl as he reached the top of the ladder.  The hunter wasted no time in unscrewing the plastic cups from the top and filling one for each of them.

Rick seemed to be faring well at the moment, his blue eyes bright as he surveyed everything in a 360 degree sweep.  He nodded as Daryl handed him a cup, blowing on the hot brown liquid before taking a sip.

“It’s kind of weak.”, he admitted with a slight scowl, “We don’t have much, so we’re stretching it out.”

“’S’alright”, replied the hunter, worrying less about the flavor and instead enjoying the warm liquid that soothed his raw, dry throat.  “I scoped out where we can put the greenhouses. Did you find a place to get the stuff?”

Rick nodded.  “Yeah, it’s a couple of days from here, but if that town isn’t completely looted, there might be some superstores there.  Maybe even a gardening center.”  He cocked his head to one side, smirking as a long string of cursing came from the direction of the wall expansion.

“Somebody must’a hit their thumb with a hammer.”, laughed Daryl. 

“I guess the swearing is a good sign.  Means they’re alright enough to complain.”

“So…this town. Sounds like a long shot.”

Rick nods. “What isn’t, these days? Two days there, two days back, and hopefully it’s worth the trip.  I thought you and Aaron could go, maybe take someone else along, if you want?”

Daryl shook his head.  “Nah, if we find a good haul, better to have all the space in the truck we can.  ‘Sides, two people should be able to handle the job.”

Finishing his coffee in one final swig, Rick nodded again and motioned for Daryl to follow him down the ladder.  When they reached the bottom, Father Gabriel was waiting to replace Daryl on watch.  They each shook his hand before he climbed the ladder, and the two men walked toward Rick’s house.

“I’ll catch Aaron, we’ll get the route planned and some alternates in case somethin’ goes wrong.”, Daryl said.  “We’ll have the plans to you this afternoon and leave before dawn tomorrow.”

Rick nodded. “Take the big truck, we’ve got some extra gas and hopefully you can find some more on the way.”

Daryl turned his eyebrows up at that.  “You want us to take that gas guzzler on a four-day run to possibly nothin’?”

“I’m being optimistic.”, quipped Rick with a grin as Judith ran squealed from her playpen on the porch at the sight of her daddy.

“I dunno,” sighed Daryl.  “Optimism gets us in trouble sometimes.”

“So you’re being pessimistic about optimism?” Rick teased him.

“Guess so.”  Even Daryl nearly smiled at that.  Because the truth was, optimism or pessimism didn’t matter, it was all bound to go to shit at some point anyway.  But for now, they might as well enjoy the fact that everything was okay.

Rick laughed and waved Daryl off toward Aaron’s house as he jumped up the porch steps and lifted a giggling Judith into his arms. 

Daryl was grateful for the idea of a run.  After the events of the previous night, he hoped getting out on the road would clear his head and wash whatever craziness had hit him out of his system. It’d been awhile since he’d been on a run, maybe it was just what he needed.

That thought, and the chance to get outside the walls with Aaron added some energy to his step as he approached the other man’s porch.  It had been a long time since they’d stopped recruiting new people, and although Daryl joined Aaron and Eric for dinner about once a week, he genuinely missed the times they’d spent out looking for people.  Aaron was one of the few people in Alexandria that Daryl felt comfortable talking with, and the other man never tried to push conversation when they fell into an easy silence. 

Eric opened the door before Daryl even knocked.  “I’m not letting you in!”, scowled the young man, looking thinner than ever in his worn bathrobe and slippers.  “You’ve come to take him away, haven’t you?!”, he stated, dramatically raising the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Shut up”, Daryl scowled back, “I’m not takin’ him anywhere today.”

Aaron walked up behind Eric.  “Let the man in, honey.  It’s cold outside.”

“Oh fine,” whined Eric in mock resignation. He laughed and grabbed Daryl’s hand, pulling him inside and closing the door behind them.  “I’ll get you coffee. Sit.”, he said to both men and pointed to the living room.

Aaron motioned for Daryl to follow him, and the hunter plopped down in a comfy recliner while Aaron sat on the couch.

“No matter what he says, he actually wants me to go.”, laughed Aaron, nodding his head toward the kitchen where Eric was pouring coffee.  “He knows I’m stir crazy, and I think I’m driving _him_ a little crazy being around me all the time.”

“I need to get out too,” admitted Daryl.  “This’ll take a few days more or less, just long enough to make him miss ya.”

Aaron nodded, a small grin forming on his face as Eric brought in two steaming mugs, handing one to each man. 

He sat his small frame next to Aaron on the couch and placed a hand on his knee.  “So, what’s the plan?”

***

After a restless night on the couch in which he finally gets a couple of hours’ worth of sleep, Daryl awakens to a tentative hand gently shaking his arm.

“Daryl.” Paul’s voice is soft, too soothing to make Daryl want to do anything but snuggle deeper into the couch.

“Mhmm.”

The hand stops for a moment before gently stroking his bicep twice, it’s exactly _twice_ because Daryl notices that it felt kind of good, both times. Soothing.

“It’s morning. I’ve made us breakfast and packed up everything for our run.”

Daryl’s eyes blink open in surprise. “Breakfast? Our run? _Our run?_ ”

“Aaron woke up in the night with a low fever. He’s fine, Siddiq thinks it’s just a cold, but Rick suggested I take his place.”

Paul jumps up and motions for Daryl to follow him to the kitchen. “Also, Carl tried to the move the truck to the gate this morning and it wouldn’t start. So we’re taking the Explorer.”

Daryl, who’s just sat up, falls back onto the couch with a tired thump. “Well, shit. So much for the plan.”

“Who needs a plan?” laughs Jesus as he places two steaming plates of bacon and eggs on the bar. “We don’t. We’re good at this, right?”

It’s true, Daryl knows. Throughout the war and since, it seemed that he and Paul always ended up in each other’s back pockets – fighting, scavenging, setting bombs, making trades. They make a good team and weren’t the only ones to notice it. He remembers being surprised at how smart, quick and capable Paul turned out to be, and more surprised at how soon he came to trust the little ninja.

He smirks and sits up again, fishing around in his pocket for a cigarette. “Yeah, we’re good at this.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this fic! I love comments, kudos, and you for reading it. :)


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